


Pendulum (FFXIVWrite2020 Day 02 - Sway)

by Ivelia



Series: FFXIV Write 2020 [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Patch 5.2: Echoes of a Fallen Star Spoilers, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivelia/pseuds/Ivelia
Summary: Part of my attempt for #FFXIVWrite2020 - September 2 (Day 2 - Sway)Thinking of her gift prevents the Warrior of Light from sleeping at night. [Depressing mood warning]Spoilers for Patch 5.2, please read at your own discretion!
Series: FFXIV Write 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906951
Kudos: 2
Collections: Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	Pendulum (FFXIVWrite2020 Day 02 - Sway)

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The obsessive cadenza of the old clock was, as always, the watchful companion of her sleepless nights. She concentrated on the monotone rhythm, as if trying to hypnotize herself, to no avail. At that point, anyone would probably have started tossing and turning in their bed, in hopes that a more comfortable position would help them to finally rest but… After playing this farce for so long, she knew that this would be a pointless endeavour. If her mind couldn’t be freed from her usual demons, she might as well lay unmoving to grant her body a modicum of rest. Tick. Tock. Inhaling. Tick Tock. Exhaling. Her breathing started following the sonorous movement of the pendulum, and as her eyelids closed, her familiar torment started anew.

* * *

\- "They are the eldest and most powerful... of primals" As his voice dropped in the damp silence of the Qitana Ravel grottoes, she felt the implications of this blunt truth hit her with the violence of a sack of bricks to the face, so hard that she felt the effects in her flesh. In truth, at the time of this initial revelation, she had not been affected that much, as there was still the possibility that this was a lie wrought by traitorous Ascian lips to confuse them and weaken their conviction. But in this recollection of those instants, she already knew how real his words were; so she had the displeasure to relive this with her soul extra heavy with these insufferable doubts. Although she managed to keep her customary impassive expression for the rest of the journey out of the ruins, she felt physically sick, the world spinning around her as if she was too drunk, hangover on the lies she had been served until now, while a deafening question was ringing in her ears.

\- (With Hydealyn being a primal, what does that make me?) A purely rhetorical interrogation, as the answer was hammered in her mind. _Tempered_. Almost an insult. A term used to qualify the poor wretches who had been forever robbed of their own will by a primal, and could only regain freedom through their death. With her master being of the same nature as those false gods, how different was she from those thralls she occasionally had to send to the cold embrace of the earth, for fear that their zealous fervour would make their idols all powerful?

\- "Art thou unwell?" She had unknowingly halted her steps, drawing the concern of her dream friends. At that moment and place, they would have asked this out of concern that the light of the Rak’tika Greatwood warden could be causing her discomfort. But in this altered memory, the look of worry in their eyes was akin to the pity for a condemned beast that needed to be put out of its misery. If Hydealyn ever turned out to be a dangerous existence, would they mercifully put her to the sword, if Her influence was to take over? Was it even possible?

In the end, she offered them a stoic nod and a smile of reassurance, masking the fact that her inner world was crumbling, adding the guilt of mistrusting her friends’ intentions to the doubts overtaking her, gradually filtering this skewed vision to nothingness as her thoughts wandered along the lines of how would it be possible to stop a _Blessing of Light_ -imbued, eight times-rejoined Warrior of Light.

This probably would not be an easy task. She thought back to the various opponents she had faced, most of them either now dead or woefully inadequate for this morbid undertaking. And in this place where she would gain no respite, of course she would remember some of the most unpleasant of these encounters, endlessly dwelling on their ominous warnings and prescient taunts alike. In these fictional landscapes, she felt as if she wasn’t actually moving by herself, as if she wasn’t allowed to deviate from what had happened; it felt like they were unbending memories, re-lived for the sole purpose of making her appreciate the distasteful irony of her predicament. So she had the displeasure of redoing every harrowing fight, her body moving on its own like the puppet she was, swaying at the end of her strings, dancing unsteadily at the pied-piper’s echoing melody; and those weak, pathetic enemies from older encounters were unable to capitalise on these openings where she was literally fighting against herself, nay, against this overarching will, as if their meagre strength was desynchronized from her current ability.

With such poor opponents, she wasn’t even able to escape this ordeal through her own dream death. And of course, her tormented brain would not grant to fight against her most recent opponents, the ones that would actually stand a chance. After all, there was no need to remind her of the truths that she had learnt from them; as those were already the bane of every single waking moment, making her second-guess her every breath, her every movement. How much of this was the will of Light? How much of this was herself? Her every choice felt dirty, tainted by the Light that indiscriminately reached over everything She could touch. How vexing it must have been for them, to be thwarted by a glorified flesh automaton after relentlessly toiling for aeons. In her heart of hearts, she had sympathised with their plight, yet in the end, her hand had been brutal and inflexible. But was it really her judgement?

No, she was already spending too much of her day time dwelling on this; it was way _better_ to remember every little of those situations that hinted at her condition in full, painful detail. From the moment her Echo awoke, she had done countless great deeds and slain many great foes _in the name of the Light_ ; but how much of it was on her own volition? She easily recalled how the early Ascians she had met were quick to call her a puppet of Hydaelyn, and how the first Primals she crossed blade and bone with were cursing as they fell, having failed to claim her soul that was actually already tainted by her Radiance, and _directly telling her so_. Even Garuda, the fake goddess of a manufactured race, had been able to unveil this uncomfortable truth at a glance. Yet at that time, she had been blind, blinded to the truth. And now, within this imaginary theatre, she felt like banging her head against the walls, tick, tock, tock, tick, with every single one of their delivered lines, either to mute their mocking, agonising voices, or to see if it could cure her own hubris and naive stupidity. But here, she could only move as she was directed.

Until she arrived in a flowering garden towering above the stones of Gyr Abania. At that point, her ears were numb to the jeers of her opponents; the only thing that she cared about was, whether or not they would be able to cut her strings. Yet her dull mind was pierced by a remark of the flaxen-haired monster in front of her:

\- "Does it merely render you immune to eikonic influence? Or is it rather that your influence is far greater than theirs?" How right, yet completely wrong this statement had been. He had given her way too much credit. It was just that the influence she herself had fallen under, branded through her gift, was far greater than _everything_. But it was of no import. Not like she could correct him in this memory anyway. Not like she had the power to correct _anything_ , anyway. All that mattered was that it had been one of the most difficult battles she fought, a precise, sweeping dance in the skies. Maybe she could, just a little slip would suffice and… A brutal release.

* * *

Tick. Tock. As she woke up brutally, the noisy but regular swaying of the pendulum was a precious help to anchor herself in the waking reality, as she forced her disordered pants to follow perfectly spaced clicks of the apparatus. Tick. Tock. Exhaling. Tick. Tock. Inhaling. A deep sigh:

\- "Another night of nightmares". She got out of her bed to greet a new, hateful day serving her Mistress, her step more steady than her heart would ever be.


End file.
